Crossing the Line
by Fish Wishes
Summary: AU: During World War Two, things happened which should have never happened. People had to make decisions that should have never been made. And Seras is in the middle of it all.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: **Like I being doing this if I owned _Hellsing_. Blanket Statement.

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter One**

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><p>Terrified wasn't even in the range of where Seras found herself as she did her best reenactment of a wall. Petrified was better suited for her current state. It wasn't her first mission, but it could easily be her last as two guards rounded the corner. Their guns rested on their hips, at the ready for any person trying to escape the compound. They were joking and laughing with each other in German. She scanned the area. Escape. Escape! She couldn't be caught. If she was caught it meant torture, it meant death. However, it wasn't her own life she was scrambling to keep. The arms wrapped around her neck tightened. The child didn't make a sound, but trembled nonetheless. Their hearts ricocheted off another as the guards patrol crept closer to their corner.<p>

Seras tried to formulate a desperate plan. _Maybe I can distract them while he gets away,_ she thought. Then, the horrifying picture of her getting caught played in her mind. She shuttered and for a brief moment wanted to sacrifice the child to spare her own life. Sickened by her cowardice, she knew she had to take care of this child. Whether or not she would be able to save others in the future was another matter. With solid resolve, she leaned forward on her toes, ready to sprint to the break in the wall where she normally smuggled people out of the ghetto and supplies in.

The pile of discarded junk beside her rattled as she accidentally rubbed against a beam of wood. She froze as the guards voices pitched higher, a signal of their suspicion. Their shadows fell over her faster than she anticipated. She looked up at the man (she thought there was two?). There was little to take in. Winter was creeping into Poland, and the man before her was dressed like all the other Nazi swine, his red badge glaring out at her. Her hold on the child tightened. Her blue eyes sparked with determination.

"Hans! Was is das?" a voice called.

The man before her wasn't the guards who unwittingly trapped her. He grunted a reply in German, "Es ist nur ein Kätzchen." He turned away. Confused, Seras wanted to stop the man and demand an explanation, but she kept her curiosity at bay. He just spared her life by sacrificing his own. If any of his comrades found out about his compassionate gesture than his punishment would be worse than anything she might receive. She remained crouched even when she knew she could escape without being spotted now. What was she waiting for?

Finally shrugging past her instincts, she slid towards her concealed exit, careful to step on the harder parts of the ground so not to leave any tracks. She silently coaxed the child forward. There wasn't enough space for them to go together. She ducked into the crevice, but caught sight of the terrifying military outfit. She didn't need to check twice to see that it was her benefactor, making sure his kindness wasn't wasted and she left intact.

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><p><strong>Author<strong>: These are going to be short little things. So don't get grumpy 'bout the chapters length please! It's too stressful to write huge, long chapters, but this idea was rolling in my head and I just had to do it! Please review!


	2. Chapter Two

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Two**

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><p>The buildings around the ghetto were desolate. These were the homes of the Jewish families who were extracted from their comfortable lives and clumped together into a pathetic compound which bulged with starving children and pestilence. The street which Seras slid down has only seen the likes of Military Dogs these past months as they stalked the walls for escape routes. It was the same mission which brought Seras to this place. She monitored the guards schedule before risking such an undertaking and was proud that 'a little English woman,' such as herself, could outmaneuver the Nazis.<p>

As she scrutinized a particular part of the barricade which had promising footholds, she was interrupted by something akin to a dog bark. She zoned in on two men as they strode towards her. Terrified about the implications of their approach, she struggled to decide what the best course to take. If she ran, she had a chance of getting away, but it would hint at her intentions. Thus, she was forced to stand as they crept down the alley. She shivered. It wasn't that cold out, but she felt their stares barring down upon her. She bit her lower lip in attempt to hide their trembling. It did little good, though, considering her whole body shook.

One hung back as another approached, reaching for something in his lapel. _A gun!_ She shrunk back. _If he's going to shoot me, then he'll have to do it to my face!_ Stealing herself for the worst, she felt the air drain out of her when the man simply handed over a head scarf—_her_ head scarf. Confused, Seras reached up and brushed her hair. _How did I not notice?_ she wondered as she hesitantly reached out for her belonging. The man was smiling encouragingly. She frowned at his friendliness. She was not used to dealing with friendly Nazis. It was an oxymoron_. Well, for the most part, at least._ Her memories supplied an example of a nondescript soldier from last Tuesday night.

True to form, however, the Nazi grabbed a hold of her hand and tugged her against him. He growled out a few words in German as she struggled from his grip. He kissed her roughly. Seras wanted to puke, but couldn't, so she did the next best thing and slammed her knee into his groin. The man hissed and backed away, clutching his crotch. Although he spoke another language, it was obvious profanities spilled from his lips like the spit dribbling down his chin. She rubbed her hand repeatedly over her mouth, disgusted by the lingering feeling. Her assailant lunged at her, determined to sooth his pride. He was stopped short, however, when his companion ordered, "Genug!"

The man halted in his attack. Seras observed as the man straighten and twisted his face back into its deceivingly pleasant smile and noted, "Diese Katze hat Krallen," to his partner. The men left.

Seras sighed and leaned against the wall. _That was too close._ The cold from the brick seeped through her mittens. It took her several minutes and few tears to compose herself once again. Frustrated by her weakness she ruffled her hair…and noticed in dismay she wasn't in possession of her head scarf, but grateful she still had her life.

Too rattled to continue her investigation, Seras turned to leave the alley. She stopped. A soldier stood there, between her and the exit. She stiffened. Neither of them moved. Finally, the man laid a square cloth at the entrance of the lane, gave the woman one final glance, and walked away. Confused, she jogged towards the objects. She instantly recognized it, her head scarf. That soldier was the same one who called off his comrade. As she folded the fabric in its appropriate fashion and tied it over her hair, she realized that soldier was the same Nazi who seemed to have a streak of kindness in him.

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><p><strong>Author:<strong> I love writing, and nothing with keep me from doing it, but reviews encourage me, so please let me know what you think! (but also thank you to all who've favored/alert-ed)


	3. Chapter Three

"Thou shalt not be a victim, thou shalt not be a perpetrator, but, above all, thou shalt not be a bystander."  
>Yehuda Bauer<p>

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Three**

It was Sunday morning. It seemed, no matter what, Seras had peace for a few hours. She would wake up, splurge and enjoy a soft boiled egg and half a potato. Sometimes guilt pressed down on her as she ate this feast, wishing she could share it with someone truly deserving of it. However, the rest of her meals _have _been split with others who've been starving inside the ghetto. This reassurance soothed her into finishing everything on her plate; the crumbs were sprinkled into her chickens' cages which sat next to the window. They were a gift from her neighbors before they tried to escape for safer lands. They were shot before they reached the border, along with the person who was smuggling them out of Poland.

She then dressed in her Sunday best, literally, for she reserved a single dress just for the purpose of mass. She owned two outfits which she alternated during the week and then her "work cloths" (trousers and a shirt stolen from the Nazi stock house along with food and medical supplies). The priest preformed the ceremony in German, but she didn't go to church to hear the zealot man prattle off some justification for the Nazi men, who occupied most of the benches in the small building. Instead she clasped her rosary beads and stared at the sad face of Jesus on the cross. The priest would have cursed her if he knew of her involvement with the Jewish and against "the cause." She knew God did not and the small children that huddled in the false wall in her closet or the mother-to-be as she lay beneath the floor. They were the only people whose opinion mattered.

Once mass was over, she basked in the humbling silence. _The church used to have stained glass, _she noted idly. The clouds outside shifted and the sun sometimes found a spot to fit through. For now, winter blessed the inhabitants of this city with a tolerable, chilly day. She wondered if the children in the ghetto would be able to enjoy it or if using that extra energy to play would be detrimental to their survival. Her bench squeaked at someone sat down. She glanced at them, then back out the window. It was a Nazi soldier, she could tell. They never took off their uniforms. They were so proud of their doings. The man did nothing and for that Seras was grateful. Friday's run-in still left her skittish. Any movement, out of malice or generosity, would have her fleeing through the doors and scurrying back to her flat.

Minutes passed and she began to fidget. Seras didn't like staying still for too long. Finally she acknowledged the man sitting at her side. Strong features. Clean hair. Pressed shirt. Thick body. After dealing with so many people starving and withering it was strange to see someone healthy up close—startling, almost, as if the war hadn't touched him. However, when he turned to meet her curious gaze, she knew her original assumption was false. His eyes, cool blue, told her of the horrors he knew, knows, and will know. She smiled. It was grim, but it was smile. The man nodded to her, stood, and left. Seras mused in the church for a few more moments. She finally met the face of her Kind Nazi and forgot to thank him. However, she doubted it would be the last chance she would have.

**Author**: I know religions touchy; I hope I didn't offend anyone with this chapter. Thank you for your support! =]


	4. Chapter Four

"Silences make the real conversations between friends. Not the saying but the never needing to say is what counts."  
>Margaret Lee Runbeck<p>

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Four**

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><p>It was a pathetic scare tactic, but it worked. Those still inhabiting the Polish town were forced to watch as a sympathizer was stripped and beaten. Seras was disgusted. She grimaced as she heard the man's strangled pleading. For a moment, it seemed, as if the Nazi's were going to be merciful. Then a child, a child, mounted the stage. He was twelve and dressed as a Hitler Youth. She couldn't understand the vicious grunts coming from the soldiers, but the idea was clear enough. This boy was to partake in this ceremony. She couldn't hate the child. She could only pity him. He didn't understand what he was doing, right? He only wanted to be seen as a man, a good German-Nazi man and bring pride to his family. The child didn't know any better. She needed to save this boy for he knew only pain and suffering and killing and brutality.<p>

She moved easily in the crowd. Not only did the people wish to distant themselves from this horror playing on stage, but they, too, were starving, for all available food went to the soldiers. Before anyone could suspect her motives, she was yanked aside. No one noticed. Their attention was upon the boy and the blood he evoked from the helpless man.

Her captor hissed at her in German. They were pressed together in the dark, trash filled alleyway. He trapped her against the brick and his own body. He couldn't have her darting back out into the crowd to save one man. She could rescue dozens of more Jewish before something worse could befall them. And something worse was creeping about in the shadows.

She struggled and tried to wiggle away from this man who thought he was doing her a favor. He shook her until her focus, and her anger, was on him.

"You limp-dick coward!" Seras seethed. She was crying now because the man was being dragged off stage and the boy strutted like a proud rooster and soldiers congratulated him. "You disgusting, filthy Nazi!" she spat. He did not react to her English words. He might not have understood them, but it still made her feel better, thus she continued her tirade and called him everything she could think of—twice.

His grip never lessened on her arms and neither did his gaze. It wasn't pitying, thank God, or condescending. It was this look, by the end of her fit, which she reflected in her own eyes: determination. Without words, these two people connected. She stopped struggling. He let her go and stepped back. Holding out her hand she said, "Seras Victoria."

"Hans Gunsche." He accepted the peace offering with one solid shake. A shy, lopsided smile flitted onto her face. She was now friends with a Nazi. Oh the wonders of the world.

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><p><strong>Author<strong>: This is what I did instead of writing a paper. Review and make my day, please!


	5. Chapter Five

"Action is the real measure of intelligence."

Napoleon Hill

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Five**

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><p>It wasn't the first time Nazis searched her flat. Seras' remaining neighbor was a twisted old woman with heart problems who was a Hitler zealot. If she could have, she would have been a soldier fighting in the War. Suspicious of anyone (especially an English foreigner who had not yet been led away into prison or shot for treason), her neighbor had the tendency to report Seras to officials. Before, the Nazi knocked; as the war progressed, however, it seemed as if they began to lose all their manners. They barged into Seras' apartment just as she was burning an English newspaper smuggled in through her French connections and wearing a light chemise. The soldiers sneered and handled her roughly. Their eyes were not polite; they shone with a desperate hunger that their meager rations would never feed. Nothing more than a graze across the shoulder though, or obviously crude words, though. For that she was grateful. It seemed as if such a thing as "Nazi Honor" might exist.<p>

Instead of putting more attention on her, they focused on her apartment. They tore apart her bedroom, flipped the bed and pushed down the dresser. They stomped and knocked on the walls, listening for a tell tale echo. A man walked around with a stethoscope, too, listening for heartbeats in hidden places. They found nothing, to their obvious displeasure. They grunted a few things to another, took her eggs, and left. Confused by such an uneventful departure, she threw on a robe and stepped out into the hall. Hans stood only a step away, in mid stride.

"Guten Morgan," he greeted.

"Good day," she replied, tugging at her robe.

Hans glanced over her and nodded. It wasn't an obtrusive action. The gesture was comforting, as if making sure none of the soldiers over stepped their boundaries. He left with her standing in the cold hallway with her toes exposed. As a chill shook up her spine, she realized the inspection, for once, had nothing to do with her nosey neighbor. The forethought of her newly acquired friend put her under the radar. After all, who would suspect that just last night she saw off those inhabiting her floorboards to her French smugglers. The echoing of her compartments were dulled by whatever means she could (those including storing her chamber pot and chickens beneath her feet and a torn up mattress in her false walls). Once warm from the bodies living there, they were as cold as her toes. Just as she was about to duck back into her flat to think more thoroughly about this rising situation, Seras saw her neighbor poking her long nose out her door. The young British woman had the strongest desire to stick her tongue out and act like a foolish child who just proved their playground arch nemesis wrong.

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><p><strong>Author<strong>: Thank you for everyone's attention! I hope you continue to enjoy this fanfiction. Please review and thank you to all of you who've taken the time to do so! It means a lot to me.


	6. Chapter Six

"When we're connected to others, we become better people."  
>Randy Pausch in <em>The Last Lecture<em>

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Six**

There were no more horses. At first, it was because the Nazis confiscated them all, but now it was because the Nazis were starving, too. Meat from an animal was a still meat from an animal to fill their bellies with and stave off the winter chill setting into their bones. When Seras' tentative friend arrived with warm, buttered bread and some pork tenderloin—imagine her disbelief. Since the occupation, bread was filled with sawdust until there was no more yeast or flour or sawdust and it disappeared completely. Meat was a rarity for _everyone_ inhabiting this Polish town. Thus, she shied away from such a generous offering. Typically people didn't give without expecting something else in return, and frankly, Seras didn't have anything to trade with worth what Hans brought. Except for maybe one thing, so she assumed the worst.

Angry and hurt such a thing might be suggested, she glared at him and snapped in English, "I'm no whore!" and slammed the door.

There was a few seconds delay before he knocked again. It was an uneven, hesitant knock that showed more emotion than his face ever would. Unable to resist, she opened the door again, taking a strong stance in the frame. He looked passively down at her and replied, in English, "No, you are not."

Not knowing how to politely turn him and his gift away, she stepped aside, her eyes wide in wonder. When Hans stood awkwardly in her kitchen, looking forlorn, she snapped from her revere and immediately set to work. She lit the oven, sliced the bread, and fished out two eggs from her chickens (treating them to a few crumbs, too). Seras turned towards Hans, her mouth pursed to speak, but remembered his limited vocabulary in English and hers in German. Instead, she turned on her heels and waltzed into her room only to return with a partner, another woman.

Hans didn't look ruffled at all, in fact, he sat down at her rickety table (she was sure her chairs couldn't hold up his bulky size and was relieved when they didn't collapse beneath him).

"Rebekah," Seras cooed when the woman began to panic at the sight of the Nazi. "Rebekah." The woman continued to clutch at her keeper, begging in Polish. Unfortunately, Seras knew less Polish than she did German, but she knew something which overrode all languages—food. She gestured towards the bread, than Hans, and nodded, smiling the whole time. Rebekah, coming to an understanding, calmed down and edged towards the table where she snatched up a slice of bread and nibbled on it, warily eyeing the soldier. Hans didn't eat anything, no matter how much Seras cajoled him. Rebekah ate whatever she was given on the opposite side of the room. The hostess sighed and poked at the tenderloin in the oven. She was worried Rebekah wouldn't eat any of it, but she needed the animal protein. It was important for a pregnant woman to get a balanced diet, something close to impossible to achieve in these conditions. _When will this be over_, she lamented, _How much longer does Hitler insist on continuing like this?_

Her thoughts were broken when Rebekah said, "Dziękuję." Confused, Seras opened her mouth, but Hans replied, instead, "Przykro mi."

Seras turned back to the oven, a soft smile on her features. Her linguistic skills might be lacking, but she realized when two people forgave each other. It was one of those universal things that seemed to permeate all cultures like love and hope—_and food_, she added, as she pulled out the steaming meat and presented it to her guests who both honed in on the tenderloin as if it was the answer to end of the war.

**Author:** More fluffiness. I feel as if it's important to develop this relationship, though, so it's not _really_ fluff. I never understand why authors just dive into stuff as if it's completely natural to easily love your enemy. I'm pretty sure Jesus is the only guy I know who can do that.

Review, darlings!


	7. Chapter Seven

"A tribute to learning is teaching."

A wise saying from the Orient

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Seven**

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><p>His visits were assured, but never on a regular schedule. It seemed as if he dropped by when he could. They were not always convenient, but they helped keep her on her toes because what is to say it wasn't another inspection from a less than friendly Nazi? His visits lasted a few minutes. He would accept her invitation inside and joined her at the table. She offered the only thing she could afford—water—and he accepted it. Seras would sit on the other side of the table, fiddling with whatever ornament suited her fancy at that time. Just as it sounds, it was horribly awkward. Two semi-strangers in each other company with a deadly secret held between them and yet nothing is said.<p>

Until, to her delight, he began to speak to her in broken English. She quickly discovered, though, his capabilities ended with parroting. If she spoke to him, he didn't seem to understand. Not because she was able to read his facial features, but because he would continue with his recitation as if she hadn't spoken. Seras knew it Hans' attempt to compensate for this disability. It was embarrassing for her to get a grown man to stop babbling about the nice weather when really, it was horrendous outside. However, she brought it upon herself to help him understand with lots of arm flaying, hand signaling and gesturing. She smiled a lot during these sessions. It was a pleasant distraction from the sleeting outside or haunting piles of frozen body she hid under last night to avoid detection by some guards along the ghettos perimeter.

It didn't seem right, though, for her to have him speaking English with her. So, she returned the gesture and greeted him one morning in his language, "Guten Morgan, wie geht es Ihnen heute?" He was shocked. She knew this because he had been mid-step into the house and stumbled. His mouth was slack (not obviously so, but just a slight loosening of the jaw). She asked him another simple question, "Möchten Sie etwas trinken? "

After that day, he took of his hat and coat, a sign of immense respect in her book. She was better at German because she's heard it so often. She only needed to identify certain nouns and the manipulation of different verbs. It would be a joke to say she was good. Her teacher had a lot of patience (especially when it came to her English accent which tended to butcher the German language). Soon, though, their conversations leaned away from pleasantries and broached upon subjects such as warnings, alarms, and insults. Seras knew these were the most important ones to pay attention to—these tips would result in a better manipulation of the system. She looked forward to when she might actually be able to apply them. Hans didn't seem as enthusiastic as she explained her excitement to him in broken English and German. In fact, he scowled. The first emotion she's ever seen expressed so freely on his face.

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><p><strong>Author<strong>: Action pending…

Thank you for all your reviews and favorites and alerts! It is very heartwarming to know you all enjoy my writing! Please continue reviewing and letting me know! Thank you, thank you, thank you!


	8. Chapter Eight

"We must build dikes of courage to hold back the flood of fear"

-MLKJ

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Eight**

The train came today. Curious, Seras ventured out of her flat on the chilly, late November day. The streets were empty, but full of noise—cries and shouts and orders and the hissing of steam and the scream of the whistle. Confused, she rushed towards the station. She restrained herself from exploding out into the scene. She hid in a small, icy alleyway watching Jews were separated from each other and thrown into carts at random—no, that's not true. The soldiers were separating men from woman, child from mother. The wailing froze her heart. Then, on the outskirts of all of this chaos was a small group of people. Seras couldn't see what spared those Jews from being shoved into the cars like boxes or sacks of flour to be stacked on top of each other.

One soldier threw a man to the ground and shot him, twice, in the head. She flinched, but didn't turn away. It was not the first time she watched a man be murdered, thankfully she wasn't immune to it though. She always worried about keeping her humanity while being surrounded by masses of monsters. Seras wondered if that soldier saw what she saw: a man who had been struggling for life that now lay prone on the street, the mystical and sacred spark of life gone.

She shivered and stepped forward, empathy spurring her into action. Immediately, someone dragged her from the shadows, and her desire to help diminished. She sputtered out anything she could in German that might prove helpful. The soldier seemed gleeful at such pleadings, though, and pulled her along like an excited child would their toy. She was thrown down at the feet of a sickly tall scarecrow and a fat pig. She pieced together whatever phrases and words she could to convey her innocence in the most coherent way possible. The portly man grinned, gleeful. Seras stopped babbling. She wished the man would frown, or yell, anything but smile that smile which had her shivering violently and sweating profusely.

"Good Day, Fraulein," he snorted like a pig, "I wasn't aware that an English woman lived in town. Please, excuse our rude behavior, but now that we are no longer ignorant of your presence, we shall rectify that," he mocked. A gun was shoved against the back of her head, forcing Seras to look down at the ground. It was an ugly picture to see during one's last moments.

Rapid German was exchanged above her. Irked they would toy with her in such a manner, she pressed up, surprised to find the gun missing and the disgusting animal gleaming at her like his next meal. "But as seems as if even you, a British sow, has a purpose to live. God does work in wondrous ways!" he sneered. As quickly as the attention had come, it was gone. The limelight had gone to focus on another part of the stage and she scrambled away, knowing her luck had officially run out. She been officially noticed and taken stock of. She was no fool. She knew who he was—a general. Hitler and he pissed in the same pot. And she thought her decrepit, heart sick neighbor would have been the end of her.

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><p><strong>Author<strong>: Action. Things are going to be happening quickly, now. Hopefully I can keep everything plausible, as well as the character reactions. Please give any feedback so that I may make your reading even better. =]


	9. Chapter Nine

Father God, we just ask You to open Your wide, wide arms and look down upon us, Lord, and lead us, and let us know what we should do to stop this, this terrible, terrible holocaust.  
>—Norma McCorvey<p>

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Nine**

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><p>The frozen morning melted into a frigid day. The wind caused the window in Seras' apartment to sing at a high pitched tone which rattled her further. It sounded just like the wailing of the women as they were loaded onto the trains. <em>Where are they going? Why would the Nazi's want to move the Jews? What's the point?<em> Such questioned haunted her. It didn't make any sense. _And that separate group… _Seras uncurled from her hunched position at the table. Dread and curiosity inflated her courage. Hans hadn't warned her of any suspicious activity, so maybe it was just a benign activity. She frowned. Thinking of that ugly, snorting, swinish man she concluded he was anything but benign.

Straightening up, she ordered, "Come now, Seras, it's time for some undercover work." Pulling on her men's clothing, she slipped out of her flat, then the town, and began to follow the train tracks. Reassuring herself she would only go a few miles before turning around, she was surprised when the train sat a few hundred meters ahead. Suspicious, she slunk farther into the tree line, keeping low. As she neared, she noticed the box cars were all open and empty. There was no one attending the engine. Confused she sprinted up to the train. It was completely silent—everything, even as the wind blew not a tree seemed to dare to rustle or make a noise.

Then a something ripped through the veil. It was the undeniable crack of guns. She flew towards the sound. German was carried on the wind and slapped against her face. Her feet stuttered. Her body wanted to backtrack and burrow itself back in the apartment, but her conscious wouldn't allow such cowardly actions. Wary of her surroundings, Seras snuck closer to where she heard the rough laughter and coarse words. A full holly bush offered her coverage. Crouching low, she pushed and pulled a few branches and peaked through—her hands found themselves keeping in the scream. She shook and wanted to throw up, but that would give her position away.

_Oh, God, have your abandoned us? _

The picture was forever burned into her memory: that horrible General standing at the edge of a pit muttering, "Scheiße, scheiße, scheiße," as if he was referring to a garbage dump and not a mass grave of naked Jews. All of those people were innocent. Although, for the Nazi's, it was their very race which condemned them to death without a proper trial or even a true, valid excuse. A bubble of bile hardened in her throat. Instinctively she scuttled back. She found herself slamming into a tree—but it was warm. Her eyes were watering, her nose was beginning to run, and she shook like a lost kitten. It was Hans. He looked so displaced. He wasn't the type of man to be a part of something so unjustified and ungodly. He looked so sad as he stood there with his shoulders slumped, his gun slipping between his fingers…

"Captain! Wo bist du?" a man called. She shivered. It was the General.

Hans stepped forward towards her. "Captain!" He stepped passed her, tightening his grip on the gun, and went towards the swine.

Seras was stripped raw, exposed just like the corpses. It seemed as if she didn't know her ally as half as well as she thought she did. The Generals and the Furor might have pissed in the same pot, but the Captains were the ones who wiped their asses.

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><p><strong>Author<strong>: This was difficult for me to write because I wanted to portray everything so vividly but not get wrapped up in all the little details which sometimes detract from the overall picture. I hope you enjoyed. The next few are lined up and I'll be publishing them in the next few days!

Thanks for all your support and please comment so I can know what's going on in all your heads! =]


	10. Chapter Ten

"I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you."  
>― Friedrich Nietzsche<p>

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Ten**

Fury helped her leave that forest and sneak back into town without causing a scene, but winter chilled her anger and left her beaten and weary. She dragged a kitchen chair up to the pot belly stove, pushed around the coals, and coaxed a few flames. And she sat there, watching them sway back and forth until they dwindled and hissed out. She didn't move. The sun set and cold crept into apartment, but still she sat, looking at the coals and seeing those people, haphazardly lying against each other in the pit.

It was some time in the early morning as the sun broke out against the dismal background that Seras started to cry. She cried for those dead because they would be forgotten and forever lost in the forest. She cried for those who didn't know what was coming. She cried for those who thought it was all only temporary and soon everything would go back to normal. She cried for those who prayed for an end because the end she saw today is not what they've been begging for. She cried for her own pitiful existence because now her life would become just a bunch of bones buried in a mass grave, never to be identified as something once human with a mind, a heart, a soul and that had every right to fight for their life.

And when that was over, she cried for an entirely different and somewhat bewildering reason, Hans. Anger, disappointment, and pity rippled down her back as she took deep breathes to gain control over her hysterical weeping. It was by mid noon when she finally changed and loneliness settled in her bones like the flu. Although their friendship might have been built out of a substance similar to clouds, she found herself greatly missing the presence of a particularly bizarre Nazi in the week following.

When they came upon each other when leaving mass, though, Seras looked at him but then saw the scrawny body of an old man lying on top of a young girl, both as pale as the snow and as still as a frozen lake. She is civil and nods her head before striding away. Hans gave no chase. She went through waves of hatred, pity, disgust, and then sadness that Sunday. She would cycle through multiple variations of those main feelings until she ended up simply confused and befuddled as she poked at her brunch of a soft boiled egg.

Seras ended up adding salt to her meal because she started crying. She ended up pacing the flat, angry at herself for acting like a fool and believing this Nazi was also a good man and a victim of circumstance. Then she halted, stared out the window and realized, _He never gave me away. He helped Jews escape. What is going on?_ Resigned she would never get the answers unless they finally laid all the cards on the table, but even then she knew Hans would always keep a few in his back pocket, just in case.

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><p><strong>Author:<strong> Alrighty, we're moving right along.


	11. Chapter Eleven

"It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."  
>― Abraham Lincoln<p>

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><p><strong>Crossing the Line<strong>

**Chapter Eleven**

After months of enduring soldiers barging into her flat for searches, imagine Seras confusion when someone _knocked._ She knew it wouldn't be Hans (he wouldn't come until she approached him first). With the utmost caution, she eased back her bolts and peaked out. A tall, lean woman grinned from the shadows of the afternoon light. "Seras Victoria, I presume?" The swastika burned brightly on her sleeve. "My name is Rip Van Wrinkle." Her German accent was thick as the gloom in the hallway.

"H-how do you do," Seras stuttered and bobbed her head.

"Very well, thank you, but I could do with something to drink." It wasn't a subtle self-invite into her home.

"I'm sorry, but I don't have any tea or coffee."

The woman frowned, sighed, and said, "I thought English women were suppose to be good hostesses. But water will do." She shouldered her way into Seras' flat. Taking time to gaze out the window, Miss. Wrinkle cackled, "I think we have helped increase your property value!"

"Excuse me?" Seras fidgeted by the table.

The woman didn't deign to answer. Instead she sat at the table and questioned Seras about all sorts of inconsequential, albeit private matters. As the sky darkened, Miss. Wrinkle left without any sort of pleasantries. Only then did Seras realize her _guest_ never took a sip of water. Gazing across the horizon as the sun bled red into sky, her eyes settled on the empty ghetto which could be easily discerned due to its barbed wired walls. The memories of the day when she realized the true horrors of the Nazis' plan simmered at the surface of her thoughts. She couldn't dwell. Such a thing wouldn't help those who are dead. Forming a resolve to investigate those who were separated from the other people Seras didn't expect to have another visit from Miss. Winkle, but she did and with the most audacious question on the tip of her tongue: "Are you a virgin, Frau Victoria?" Miss. Winkle purred.

Seras blinked. _This couldn't be happening—this isn't happening_, she tried to convince herself. Several seconds of awkward silence passed before the question was repeated, with obvious impatience. Flushed and shaking, Seras replied, "I hardly think such a question is approp—"

"Yet it is a question I asked!" Miss. Winkle gnashed her teeth together like a hungry dog waiting for its meal.

Wanting the woman out of her house, Seras straightened and snapped, "Yes. I am. Now show yourself to the door." She sounded much braver than she felt before this strange woman, but most of the anxiety having to do with the gleaming, mysterious riffle propped up on the table.

Miss Winkle's ugly, rage induced face folded into a grin which did nothing to comfort Seras. "Very good, Frau Victoria, very good." With that, the woman departed.

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><p><strong>Author<strong>: No excuses. Only chapters. (and reviews, please?)


	12. Chapter Twelve

"He wept because he was afraid now that he could not save Gabriel.

He no longer cared about himself."  
>― Lois Lowry, <em>The Giver<em>

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><p><strong>Crossing the Line<strong>

**Chapter Twelve**

He came in the night. It was both the best time and worst time for there were shadows for him to hide in, but that also meant there were shadows for _them_, too. He would have to take the chance. It was now or never. He ignored the implications of _never_ like one ignored their horrid grandmother at family gatherings; but she was always there, muttering darkly in the corner. He was supposed to be miles from the town on another mission. He didn't know if it was on purpose or not. It was by bizarre coincidence he found out. Her apartment hadn't been touched yet (they planned to come in the early morning). He couldn't feel guilty when he made quick, silent work of her door and proceeded to wake her up (He was trying to save her life, after all). Seras shot up, gun in hand, aim steady. She blinked, "Mr. Gunsche?"

"We leave. Now." There was no room for arguments. Taking his empty pack he began to shove items in: blankets, matches, bandages. Looking at the lone chicken in the cage, taking it alive wouldn't be an option so he snapped its neck. Seras emerged from her bedroom adjusting her skirts. Hans knew she was wearing any extra layers of clothing she could.

"What's happening?" she hissed, obviously mistrustful still.

Hans didn't answer. Instead, he threw her coat, scarf, and hat at her. She held them in her hands, making no move to facilitate their escape. "What's happening?"

Desperation bubbled passed his stoic face. The moonlight that dared to filter passed the vicious winter clouds showed the clear markings of distress. "Trust me, please," he begged.

So shocked by such a display of emotion Seras did as she was told. Before her scarf was wrapped all the way around her neck and her mittens were on her hands, Hans pulled her out the door. As they scrambled down the streets he pressed her into a corner with his rigid body shoving her against the wall. It appeared as if it was random, an extra precaution because she never detected anyone. As suddenly as she was hidden she was ripped away before a sprint down another alley. The process repeated several times until there were no more shadows to skitter through and the town sat silent behind them. Completely lost, Seras resigned herself.

As the woods shadows filled with greater darkness and the Witching Hour ebbed closer, Hans suddenly stopped, grabbed a hold of her hand and ripped her down to the ground. She could barely breathe as his heavy body smashed down on her. Heart ricocheted off of heart. Cheek scratched against cheek. Breath mixed with breath. Then, she heard it—the slight crackle of scurrying feet on the forest floor.

If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the person standing a few feet from them, scanning the area. They would turn in a few directions, shuffle around, and probably frown. _We're being hunted! _She revised her thought, _I'm being hunted! _She looked at Hans. His focus was pinpointed to their right, where their tracker was. His jaw was clenched, making his square features jagged and harsh. It was the only betrayal of emotion. It was from this small sign Seras knew, despite everything, she would and could trust this Nazi. When she felt Hans muscles relax, she knew the danger had passed, but they did not move for several minutes. His eyes were closed during this time, as if he was concentrating on something she couldn't hear.

Confused why they were still on the ground she tried to move out from beneath him. He growled low and clenched a hand on her shoulder. It didn't hurt at first, but it slowly began to ache and go numb. "Mr. Gunsche," she hissed, "Sir." Beginning to become desperate she whimpered, "Hans!" His eyes snapped wide and he starred at her. The moment passed and the message conveyed was lost in translation, leaving poor Seras more confused than ever as they took off again into the night.

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><p><strong>Author<strong>: What a long one (comparatively)! I'm sure some of you enjoyed it, though. Thank you for all your support and please continue to review, alert and favorite. It brightens my day.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

"I may not have gone where I intended to go,

but I think I have ended up where I needed to be."

—Douglas Adams

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><p><strong>Crossing the Line<strong>

**Chapter Thirteen**

Seras knew they passed that tree already. It wasn't out of some sleep depraved delusion either. That nub gnarled to look like the wizened face of an old woman was impossible to replicate! Perhaps she was going a little loopy from the lack of sleep, but of this she was _sure_. The rush of energy from fear disappeared along with the moon. She suspected Dawn was only an hour away, but their destination remained a mystery. Growing weary of this bizarre game Hans seems to have them playing, Seras halted and demanded much too loudly for the hushed forest, "What's going on? You must tell me!"

He stared at her as if she made the worst possible comment ever. He took her numb, mitten-covered hands and wordlessly coaxed her towards him. Her heart jumped back into action. Inner heat pushed against the outside cold. Befuddled, she looked up into his icy blue eyes that rarely melted to reveal his true intentions. Ever so carefully he moved her closer and closer to him until their breath mingled in the January air. Unsure what was going on, Seras whispered, "Hans?"

In a flash, he left and was crouched on the ground behind her, his hands scratching at the forest floor. Stupefied, Seras watched dumbly as he picked up a rock to reveal a latch ferreted beneath. With a groan, the camouflaged door was lifted up to reveal a small hide away. Hans jumped down, showing the depth to only be roughly a meter and a half. From her perch above, she listened as he shuffled about to produced light from a gas lamp. When his head reemerged, he lifted his arms towards her and beckoned in German, "Come here."

She took a tentative step closer to the edge. Impatient, he grabbed her waist and lowered her down with obvious ease. Inside was surprisingly well kept. The light showed the space to be about three meters in length and four and a half in width. All the walls, ceiling, and floor was lined with wood (the smell of the place gave it away as Cedar). Tucked in a corner were crates while the rest of the floor was taken up by a mismatch of pillows and quilts. This place wasn't a place to escape to. It was too lived in. Her eyes slanted up at Hans who stared unabashedly at her.

"Home?" Seras asked.

"Home," he confirmed before lowering the hatch on their heads.

It was uncomfortable to know you were buried beneath the ground. Panic pricked at Seras. She almost asked Hans to leave the door cracked. But that was absolutely ridiculous, of course. Logic acknowledged the reason she was here was to keep safe. Why she still didn't know and found herself caring less and less as her lids drooped lower and lower. Had there been evidence regarding the Jewish refugees escaping to safer lands with her help? It was possible, but she doubted if such was the case the Nazi's would covertly do away with her. She expected a public display of brutality that sympathizers "deserved."

As Seras stood bent near the entrance way, Hans shimmied his great mass towards the crates. He removed two objects, both wrapped in cloth. It was obvious how relaxed he was. His shoulders were slumped; his jaw was unclenched; his eyes were soft. This was his domain. She felt awkward, but this is how he felt all those times when visiting her flat. Besides these few, simple, meandering thoughts, her exhausted mind could process little else, and those blankets looked awfully inviting...

When Hans pivoted on his heels to offer his guest some dried veal, he was mildly disgruntled to find her not only unconscious, but in his bed haphazardly tucked into different layers of quilting. Sighing, he nibbled on a piece of meat and idly watched as Seras slept. Even when his hunger was sated he did not fall asleep. His brain continued to conjure up different plans for the future. Finally resigning to bed and the idea no matter how much preparatory work he did, it could all fall to dust.

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><p><strong>Author:<strong> I know that was a _complete_ tease, but you had to admit it was absolutely adorable! xD

Note: the little hideaway is 5ft deep, 10 feet in length, and 15 feet wide. =]

Also, look at all these long chapters! Man, where are they coming from? Thank you for all your reviews and support. Please continue doing so! I like to know what y'all think!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

"We all carry these things, Inside that no one else can see.  
>They hold us down like anchors. They drown us out at sea."<p>

—Chelsea Smile

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Fourteen**

The morning came with a vengeance. There was no blocking it out. The sun that seemed to have gone on vacation for the duration of winter slammed down upon their wintery, dull world and decided to make everything glitter and glisten, which in turned caused Seras to gain an awful headache. She knew where she was. She remembered everything from last night—it was kind of hard to forget. Rolling over she looked up through the hatch. She could hear the birds. They sounded so cheery. She wondered what it was like to be an animal. Not to think about such things as politics, emotions, and race. The singing stuttered out. A predator was about. When the twittering began again she considered her musings again. _It seems as if they are also hunted_.

A shadow fell through the opening. Startled, Seras scrambled from her tangle of blankets. Her panic disappeared upon recognizing Hans. He smelt like wood smoke, and in his hand was a tin cup he pushed at her. Sniffing, nostalgia consumed her and she smiled. "It's black tea," she laughed, "Black tea!" Basking in the robust, bitter flavor of the hot, refreshing drink Seras planned. They needed to talk, but she knew Hans knew how to avoid pertinent questions. Instead, she decided to focus on more… pressing matters. "Ahem," she began," I have need for the-privy." She blushed. Hans blanched. She wasn't trying to catch him off guard she really had to, well, use the facilities!

After an embarrassing start, the morning quieted down. They ate some charred bird over a fire and remained silent until Seras' nature kicked in. She was never the silent type.

"Hans," she finally broached "I'm going to ask you some questions. Yourdon's have to answer them, but if you do, please don't hold back. All or nothing, okay?"

Hans nodded. Within deep breath she began her interrogation: "Am I being hunted?"

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"Millennium."

"What do they do?"

Hans lips were set into a grim line; Seras moved on. "Why am I being hunted by Millennium?"

"Because you were overlooked."

"Hans, why?" she stressed. He glared. Not At her, his eyes were distant, but at what the question implied. "Hans-"

"Millennium is a," he fumbled for the English word, "science. Experiments. Medical." He shook his head mouth in hard line. "They want to make the perfect person."

Her breath caught. Her mind stuttered. "Is that why there was a separate group?" She didn't need to elaborate. It was ingrained into his memory as harshly as it was for her, but perhaps for different reasons.

Hans hissed, "Yes." The finality of such a simple word spurred more horror in her than any monologue could.

**Author:** update! =) Thanks for all your loving, guys!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

"Seeing is not always believing."  
>Martin Luther King, Jr.<p>

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Fifteen**

She shouldn't have run. But she did. Now they wanted her even more. It was much more fun for them when the person struggled or tried to escape. They reveled in the sick power of knowing that no matter what, they would win. Seras slammed into a tree only to rebound a moment later in a different direction. Hot, foul breath pressed against the back of her throat. She could hear his teasing, the heady need for power and sex as palpable as burnt rabbit. Vile. Lingering. A shot cracked from the revolver, the sound the bullet made when imbedded in a tree sounded like bones snapping. She could keep running, keep trying. She needed give up yet. They would tire. They must tire. Just as she would, too.

Hans wasn't with her. He needed to keep appearance to continue gathering intelligence. It wasn't the first time she had been left alone these past two weeks. It wasn't the first time she wondered through the forest. She knew the area where they were hidden away in fairly well, now. She knew there was a half frozen river about a kilometer away. She knew Hans hated it when she used the same routes to go to the restroom or look for some food.

"Careful!" he would repeat.

Seras knew how to smuggle a pregnant woman from the ghetto. Dress like a man. Steal from the Nazi's. She didn't need to be scolded like a little girl.

"Careful!" he warned.

Seras was stupid. Blinded by hubris she subtly ignored him. Hans' eyes would glint between frustration and worry. She didn't understand. She didn't try to understand. And now she was slowing down because despite how desperately her mind screamed at her to run and her heart begged for her to keep going, her body faltered and staggered. Soon, her feet were no longer touching the ground. She was flying, floating, and then crashing onto ice. The trees became a blur of brown mixing with the gray of the sky and the earth. She tried to sit up, to crawl, to _keep moving, _but soon their hands were touching, touching, _touching_.

Mocking laughter was strangely muffled. The rustling of fabric was acute and sharp, like metal grinding against metal. Her body felt fat and swollen as she tried to push away the groping, intruding hands. She was suspended in two placed at once. She didn't care about what was happening; she became numb to it. Everything was in a haze, like waking up in London again. Then, Seras cared too much. She was crying and babbling and begging. Her skin felt as if it was pricked constantly by needles. Was that from the cold or from the pain?

She refused to look at them, straining her neck as far away from reality as possible. Her vision vibrated. She couldn't focus, but didn't mean she couldn't see. The gray and brown was suddenly interrupted by blue. How did these men not see it? It was brown, but its impressive presence isn't something you ignore. Even she heard it over her own heart beat, the low growling an animal like that could only make. The smell of death as puffed out of its breath in a venomous cloud.

_Come to join the feast? _she joked bitterly. Its figure faded or did it disappear? Or was it her vision that was slipping away…

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><p><strong>Author: <strong>So what did I just do? Oh, darlings, buckle your seat belts!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

"War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend."  
>― J.R.R. Tolkien, <em>The Two Towers<em>

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Sixteen**

"Seras!" he's shouting. When did he start shouting? "Seras!" He held her head gently. Blood dribbled onto his lap. Was it coming from the gash on her forehead? Why was her blond hair matted? He tried to brush it, to make it look nice again, but her babushka was gone and her blond hair! Why was it matted so badly? He straightened her skirt, tucked her coat more snugly. Hans will admit he wanted to touch Seras, hold her close, but not like this. His fingers trailed over her swollen jaw. Instincts and adrenalin roared at him to tuck Seras away and never let her out. He wouldn't bother to hide the bodies. It would be a clear declaration. An obvious warning that would no doubt be ignored by the General.

Getting back home was a struggle. Panic disoriented him and Seras kept on shaking. Not shivering, _shaking._ It wasn't terribly cold. Night hadn't fallen yet. But the blood! There was so much of it? Was there always so much of it? He never remembers anyone bleeding this much. It couldn't be normal, right? He's never bothered to care before, but this couldn't be normal. He's in the business of killing, not healing. He knew how to make a person hurt. He knew tearing off someone's nails will make them talk more coherently than breaking a leg. He knew the easiest way to kill someone was to shoot them in the temple. He knew Germans and Jews both screamed the same way before they died. He knew how to survive, and he knew, to survive, Seras needed dry cloths.

It was easy, the first layers. He rubbed her feet and rolled her ankles to get them warm again. Her fingers were calloused and scarred, not delicate like a lady's should be. Her legs and arms, though skinny from lack of food, were muscular and strong. _Strong,_ Hans assured himself. _She is strong._ He focused on getting her out of her undergarments and into some of his borrowed cloths as fast as possible.

The quaking abated. Was that a good thing? Was that a bad thing? Hans massaged her hands and calves again, just as insurance. Beaten, worn, and barren of any remaining adrenalin, he slid down onto his side. Although exhausted, periodically he hovered his hand over Seras' mouth to guarantee she was still breathing, was still alive. He bobbed like a boat on a stormy ocean, flowing in and out of awareness as night deepened into the darkest hour and succumbed completely to sleep once the sun faded into the sky.

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><p><strong>Author:<strong> A peek into Hans. I hope he wasn't out of character. I just can see a man who appears to have never really cared about anything reacting this way. The next chapter will be split between Hans and Seras perspective. Thank you for all your loving and please continue to review!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

"There is a primal reassurance in being touched, in knowing that someone else, someone close to you, wants to be touching you. There is a bone-deep security that goes with the brush of a human hand, a silent, reflex-level affirmation that someone is near, that someone cares."  
>― Jim Butcher, <em>White Night<em>

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Seventeen**

She was _hot._ Sweltering. Everything was so heavy. Her hands, her head, and even her hair pulled her down, she was so _hot._ She fumbled against the heat, trying to escape it. Soon, a cool opening brushed down her neck and chest. Sweet relief. She need more, though. A crack along her stomach and wrist and she was satisfied, falling back down into the deep abyss. A shock of cold ripped through the dark veil as it touched her lips. At first she pushed against the invasion, an irrational fear causing her to reject it. Its refreshing bite couldn't be ignored, and she soon gulped any of it she could. Officially sated and comfortable, she snuggled against the welcoming warmth and slept.

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><p>Seras wouldn't stay still. Sometime after Hans roused from his unfulfilling sleep, she began to fuss. She wasn't conscious. He called her name several times, but there had been no answer. She kept squirming, fighting. He tried to calm her by petting her hair and whispering desperate words of safety and brighter days. She continued to move, the blood flaking off from her head. Should it do that? Is she hurting herself? She got in such a state the blankets caught around her throat. Angry she'd cause her own harm, after everything he's done to protect her, Hans peeled away all the layers piled on her, grumbling in German about ungrateful women.<p>

He was careful not to jostle her. When she finally settled, she had only one blanket draped over her legs. His clothing was twisted around her body, exposing too much flesh. Feeling indecent and scandalous Hans tried to be a gentleman by buttoning the shirt more completely and pulling it farther down over her stomach. Seras would have none of that. A hand slap thwarted any of his attempts. He finally settled with just not looking below her neck line, which just made everything all the more awkward. Hans wanted to leave. Hans wanted to stay. He didn't like this indecision of being torn between two things which really shouldn't be too hard to decide between, but really are.

He's gone through this only twice in his life. Once when he killed his first Jew. Once when he saved his first Jew. Until he made a decision, he did things to ignore what was happening, to cover up the desperate need to choose. So now, he snatched his canteen and coaxed water down Seras throat. It was a mess really. He thought he was doing it right, but she first spit up on him before eagerly drinking whatever else she could. He was shocked (and disgusted). Such a dignified woman acting like a baby? Too many things were twisted. Parents shouldn't be forced away from their children. Men shouldn't be forced to believe in an ideal. Teenagers shouldn't be forced to dig for rubbish to eat.

Women shouldn't be forced to curl around (almost) complete strangers to feel safe. Flustered, Hans froze. Maybe if he didn't move, she would? Maybe if he eased away…Seras sighed and shifted further in to his bent body. She would be his ruin.

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><p><strong>Author: <strong>Some light, possibly cliché, fun. Again, thank you for your reviews. For their consideration is _breathtaking_ for me. Action pending.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

"The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you.

You just got to find the ones worth suffering for."  
>― Bob Marley<p>

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Eighteen**

After Seras awoke, trepidation descended upon their little hovel. Neither occupant could ponder on their embarrassment—Seras ignored the idea of Hans changing her into dry cloths, and hans ignored the idea of Seras curling into him—or longing. With the daze lifted from her injuries, two haunting matter rose like mist in the morning reveling the hidden facts.

One: Spring was coming. So was mud, which, when living in a home equivalent to a large coffin, wasn't a good thing. Soon, their hideaway will be reveal when the ground sinks down through the cracks. For now, it only meant damp blankets at high noon and being careful with any ammo and guns. In less than a month, though, Hans would need to surprise Seras with another home again.

Two: The hunt was on. Seras knew the men Hans killed were scouts, the dogs. (_It wasn't a wolf for goodness sakes,_ she convinced herself.) The men with the guns were stalking behind, waiting for the signal bark. Her (over)protector insists they remain indoors unless for necessities. Before, she never understood what it was like to hide beneath someone floorboards or in their walls. Now she did. Going the bathroom became a heinous curse.

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><p>A day on the surface helped Seras leave her negative, intrusive thoughts in the ground. The day was beautiful, for late-winter-Poland standards. The clouds thinned enough for sunlight to strain through. They creeped through the damp forest searching for game or any edible growth. Seras hates the insistent prickle of her hair. She hates Hans circling her, ready to take any blow directed at her. She hates the idea of him losing any more of his humanity for her, a single person.<p>

Hans halts. He doesn't need to say anything. She saddles up to his side, pistol heavy in her hands. "Wait here," he signals. She almost lets him. Almost falls back as a proper English woman should, but she creeps forward with him instead and hissed, in careful German, "Nein! Ich bin dein Freund und Du bist mein!" He didn't stop her from following, but she watched as his caressed the trigger of his riffle in an all too eager fashion.

When she thinks the threat passed, Hans grapples a man to the ground. She ignores the temptation of firing the gun. She had just as much chance of shooting the stranger as shooting Hans. She's primed to run, but she waits, not wanting to abandon him just yet…

"Seras?"

"Pip!" she cries and jumps to pry Hans off.

They're laughing and hugging although they're never been so personal before. Pip made his bawdy jokes, but he remained respectful. After all, they only saw each other when smuggling the next Nazi victim further down the railroad to freedom. There was little time for actual conversation.

"Mon Dieu!" Pip exclaims. "I knew you were alive! Ze boyz owe me ten francs—each!"

"You bet on my life!" Seras accuses, but she can't really find herself to be angry.

"Why, but of course," he coos before grinning. "You're a good bet!"

"Who else is here?" Hans interrupts. He's tense and hasn't put the safety back on his gun.

"And what's a _boche_ like you doing with our _chéri_, hmm?" Pip challenges, gathering himself to stand in front of Seras.

"Pip!" she scolds, moving between the two armed men. "He's a friend. He's been helping me."

The French man scoffs, "You could be friends with Hitler!"

She winces. He pins her naivety in a cruel manner, but it has gotten her in trouble before.

"Who else is here?" Hans presses.

"No-one."

"You're lying," he growls in German. Pip doesn't understand. He rolls his eyes and mutters an insult in French.

"Hans! Stop this." Seras is offended these two men don't trust her judgment in company.

He glares at her, cocks his gun, and stalks off.

Pip lights a cigarette and offers one to her (which she declines) as they stand there in the melting forest. "You've been living with a Nazi?"

"He's not really a Nazi," she assures.

"There are no halves in this type of war, Seras." His voice drifts out like the smoke from his mouth.

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><p><strong>Author<strong>: Wait til you see what I've got in store! Also, I started another _Hellsing _story focused more on Seras and Alucard, but with a twist. ; ) Check it out if you're interested!

As always! Thank you everyone for your reviews, favorites and alerts! They are incredibly humbling. Let me know what you think I've got in store~


	19. Chapter Nineteen

"Fear is the mind-killer.  
>Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration."<p>

—Frank Herbert, _Dune_

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Nineteen**

They're arguing in German and English. Sometimes, one of them uses a word the other doesn't know, which only made the whole conversation—fit—horrendous and barely worth the effort. It started because while Hans was off sulking, Seras brought Pip back to their hideaway, like any other self-respecting ally would do and filled in the gaps of the past month and half. Apparently, that was "something she shouldn't have done" (as her _comrade_ worded it).Their relationship was built upon secrets and something akin to trust or faith or some other stupid, blinding noun that has a frustratingly diaphanous meaning. He looks ready smack Pip with his pistol when the French man tries to intervene. Seras pushes her way back between the two men who began doing some stupid masculine sizing-up thing.

"Enough!" she hollers. Perhaps she should have considered the likely hood of being tracked down, but then again, so should have Hans because his voice, lacking inflection (a _talent_ no doubt), raised in volume too. Neither man stopped, though, they simply stepped back. Trembling in anger, she tries not to comment about certain things. Like the mass grave and the things _he_ "shouldn't have done." She swallows fiercely. The emotions and the gnawing hunger isn't a good combination.

"You can't stay here," Hans clips. She watches his hands. His finger isn't on the trigger anymore. She's grateful for that much.

"I wasn't suggesting he does!" Seras interjects before they could have some bizarre conversation as if she wasn't here.

Pip mumbles something in French, an insult probably.

"It doesn't matter anyways because he has somewhere else to say—Hans, there's other people here." She couldn't help but get excited. As much news as she had for Pip he returned in fair and with a letter from her British contact.

Hans reacts. He swears profanely and spits at the ground before rounding on Seras and blurting in vehement German, "How's that a good thing, Frauline?"

"That's more people who can fight," she enthused. She gripped the promising envelope tighter. She wasn't able to read it yet.

"They will die."

She blinks, taken aback by his rigid pessimism, but Hans doesn't go about making accusations. He doesn't go about talking and giving away little details. Frowning she confronts him, "Not unless you tell me what you haven't."

He growls complicated German she can't catch in the dampness of the woods. He glares back at her now. "You don't want me to."

Seras frowns. She isn't one to press. She believes people will tell you what you need to know, but with Hans he'll hold back as much as he possibly can because of—guilt, fear, hope? Or is it another one of those things that no human language can actually pin down with accuracy?

Pip's laughter grates against this private moment. She blushes and tries to act offended, but she's really just confused. "Mon Dieu! You really 'avn't told 'er anything. And you!" He snorts out smoke from his nose. "Seras, chéri, really? Nothing?"

"Pip, please stop talking," she grounds out. Will no-one take her seriously?

Hans' warm body is next hers now. He's stiff and rigid and afraid. Not the life-death type of desperate fear, but the life-crushing type of fear you live with afterwards.

As the French man continues to giggle, she catches a sad note to his mirth, as if he didn't really want to be the one to say anything.

"You're right. I don't want to know," she confesses. "But stop treating me like an idiot."

With minimal talking, they leave for Pip's encampment where a promised fifty men (_allies!_) were.

**Author**: Hey ya'll. This week is going to be super stressful and look what happens where I'm ready to tear my hair out. Get ready. I'm for real in this next chapter. Thanks as always and please continue to review, darlings~ 


	20. Chapter Twenty

"The truth is incontrovertible. Malice may attack it, ignorance may deride it,

but in the end, there it is."

—Winston Churchill

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Twenty**

The night draped over the forest, bringing back the ice with it. Seras meets her allies because it's not dark enough for her not to notice all the bodies. Stripped. Strewn. Soiled. The bodies she's looking at can't be human. They just can't be. But they are. She smells the blood. It pricks at her nose like the cold. She's holding the gun up and at the ready. It wouldn't matter, though, because whatever did this—bullets are a joke. Her feet are surprisingly strong under her feet and her vision isn't swimming with tears. However, her heart aches. It thumps in her chest like the war cries of the Native Americans.

Pip tears out another cigarette and smokes as he begins to salvage what he can of his men and their belongings. He's not concerned about being exposed. He's been in the battle field enough to know when someone's attacking and when someone's sending a warning. _They could have been a little more subtle about it,_ he's thinking bitterly. Another cigarette is lit before the other one is out. "Fuck," he whispers, kneeling in front of…he's not going to try to name the certain parts of anatomy that make up the congealing clump before him. There's bile in his throat, but it won't be escaping. He'll swallow it all until just the right time when he'll throw it all up in the laps on these bastards.

Hans stands and stares at the retreating, hovering light of the dusk. When the sun is no longer exposed, he stiffens as steps closer to Seras. Her eyes are bright. She knows something above her has happened here. Something _otherworldly._ They don't say anything to each other. They can't—and not because there's nothing to be said. There's too much to be said. There are not enough words to explain everything before her. So she just holsters her gun and goes to help Pip, gagging a few times in her work. They work until the blood is ice just like the mud and they can't tell the difference between a stump of a tree and a stump of a leg.

Hans takes the lead when they finally shuffle off into the forest. They don't dare return to the hide out. It's either already been discovered or it needs to remain a secret. What for? Hans didn't know. He couldn't be expected to truly know. He didn't have a power that allowed him to read the future. He wouldn't want that power, anyways, not when he has a pretty good idea of what already might happen. Just the hint of what's to come—it was already too much.

The hair on his arms prickled. To say Hans didn't know _he_ was there would be a lie, but he hoped to ignore _him_ for only a little bit longer, to prevent Seras exposure and ultimate realization. Ignorance has made his way of life easy to live with. He's holding Seras' arm. Instincts rise and he bares his teeth.

"Tut, tut. Is that any way to greet a _comrade_?"

"Walter!" Pip gasps. "Why aren't you dead, too?"

"Sorry to disappoint."

"But don't worry." _His_ cooing voice crawls out from the darkness. "I was never alive."

Hans hates the way _he_ leers at Seras.

"Why ze 'ell are all my men dead?!" Pip accuses.

"Don't act so surprised," _he_ drawls.

"And who are you?" Seras blurts, her manners and lessons lost like the remnants of any protection she had from the truth.

_He_ grins. "You can call me Girlycard."

**Author:** . Reviews? I know ya'll got something to say. c:


	21. Chapter Twenty One

"Trust starts with truth and ends with truth."

Santosh Kalwar

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Girlycard and Walter's disappeared at irregular times. She admitted to Pip her concern. He scoffed and promised, "Zer is nozing to worry about. I razer zey stayed away!"

The logical side of her brain argued these boys who couldn't be over fourteen should never go about these woods in such an overconfident way. The illogical, innate part of her, the part years of boarding school and strict mistress tried to suppress, shivers whenever they sit near. That part of her loathes these strange boy-soldiers. They are too sweet to her. She thinks it's because they are also wondering if she tastes good.

Seras's training demands she remains polite. In effort to do such a thing, she tries to understand how London is fairing. Walter explained the bombings, smiling. "_Blitzkrieg_. That is what is it called, isn't it, _Fritz_?" he said. Hans ignored him. Not every time, though. He grounds out a few of his own. Pip and him have fought a few times. The boys he never touches, but she doesn't think that has to do with the fact they are only boys.

Once she exhausted the subject, she found barriers to most every other subject except for the most mundane. Pip, Walter, and Girlycard always had something to say. She didn't understand a lick of it. They left large gaps. They didn't try to hide it. Girlycard would smile at her when he caught her staring, wanting to piece together their disjointed plans. That smile. She found herself hating it.

Though, she continued to ache for conversation. Anything. Some type of reassurance she wasn't the only human here. Wasn't the only one terrified to fall asleep because she might not wake up, or worse yet, she would, but a moment too late before General Pig captured her. Hans stopped talking with the appearance of Hellsing. A grunt, a nod, and maybe a _Nein _or _Ja_. It is nostalgic in a way for they seem to have reverted back to those awkward moments when she lived in her flat. Or perhaps it is full circle?

* * *

><p>Two days ago they came across a mass grave. Bodies dumped into pits. Is it worthy of the title "grave?" She turned away to gag. Pip couldn't stand there. He trudged off swearing and smoking and—she was sure of it—crying.<p>

Walter said, "How distasteful."

Distasteful? She wanted to shake the boy-man and tell him distasteful is the word you use when you didn't like someone's company at a dinner party. Distasteful is the word you use with someone of few manners. Distasteful is the word she would use for him. Distasteful is not a word you use for a pile of murdered people whose bodies weren't even kept in one piece. Distasteful is not a word you used for those who died because General Pig didn't think they were pure. The irony! She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry.

She hated this boy. She wanted to hit him and make him cry. Make him feel something, anything because she started to doubt he was human.

Girlycard fired his gun. A single shot pierced corpse's head. Brain matter exploded. His excuse was, "They don't deserve to suffer, now do they?" She knew he wasn't human, not really. He couldn't be. She decided this long ago.

Girlycard disappeared after that. When he returned, his humor was harsh and cruel. His attacks were few, though. He was preoccupied. Hans never lashed back, either. He was preoccupied, too.

They both thought about things beyond their current predicament. Seras didn't understand how they were not consumed with fear of how every time they ate something it meant there was less food to eat later or how their ammunition dwindled or how the moisture seemed to make them weaker than the dry cold air did. In fact, they were immune to everything.

She wanted to think about things greater than herself, that is why she began helping people escape the ghettos. But right now, she couldn't think about anything else other than making sure she woke up the next day with mud surrounding her and these comrades who she wasn't sure she should trust anymore because it was better than any alternative.

* * *

><p><strong>Author: <strong>Enjoy! Please, review. I like hearing your comments. This is a builder (not to be mistaken with a filler) for the next few chapters. I hope your holidays were all enjoyable! Now, back to the real world.


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

"The first and greatest commandment is,  
>Don't let them scare you."<br>—Elmer Davis

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Twenty Two**

Girlycard smiles. He sit on the other side of the fire from Seras and his sudden change in disposition makes her reach for her gun.

"You're starting to learn," he says.

How should she respond? She doesn't.

The spring fog rests heavy on the earth's surface, blanketing everything in its dark embrace. Her clothes are wet and her hair either clings to her neck or sticks straight up. Pip lies on his side, chewing on a stick because he ran out of cigarettes three days ago. Hans wonders around somewhere, and Walter left sometime that morning. She didn't ask where he went. She knows no one will tell her.

Seras is always surprised when she wakes up to the green buds on the tress. She can taste the new life on her tongue, but when the wind blows just so, she gags—the smell of death still lingers. Everyone is restless. Talking becomes a burden (there is only so many times you can bring up the weather without sounding desperate). Pip is going through withdrawal and keeps on having terrible headaches. Food is minimal. Animals have become rare to see; even common song birds don't occupy the branches of the looming trees. It is always too quiet…

Hans returns, he runs into the circle of light and hovers over Seras. His breathing is heavy and obtrusive in the silence. His bleached hair swirls about his head, and he doesn't have any of his weapons on him.

"What is—" Seras is half standing when he begins stamping out the fire. "Hans!" He looks feral and wild with embers dashing up his legs with each attempt to smother them. Pip crouches with his pistol in hand, glaring into the darkness. She fumbles with her own handgun, not really sure what to do with the cool metal. They have never confronted a threat in almost a month of being together. She has not used it.

Darkness replaces the light. Some coals glow softly and crackle, but they are like threatening eyes. You cannot see them, but they can see you.

Hot breath spans over her neck. She shivers, but doesn't dare to move. She knows who it is. Hans grips her arm. Fight or Flight. That is what he is judging in his head. She learned he was not school educated, but that did not mean that he wasn't smart. His skills of prediction astound her. She once teased him in a bold moment of boredom. Girlycard cackled and told her she had no idea.

"Stick close to Girlycard," he says. His jaw pops in her ear. She had no desire to be anywhere near that unstable boy in the dark.

"I'm not leaving you." She grips for purchase on his pant leg, the only thing she can reach.

"Aw, don't hurt my feelings now, Seras." Girlycard slender hand is on her shoulder and sliding towards her neck.

She grabs his hand and squeezes. The grinding of his fingers in her grip is satisfying. "I don't trust you."

"Oh, delightful!"

Pip whispers French into the night. Hans is gone. Seras lets go of Girlycard, but doesn't move. Crouching in the dark with the gun in her hand, her throat clenches and her breath is shallow. Girlycard makes no sound, has no heat, even his touch that resumsd on her shoulder near her neck appears to take on a phantom quality. Then, he is dragging her away, thumb pressing into her skin below her collar. She screams. Bullets were fired. Pip curses. Girlycard laughs.

Shadows hover around trees and ducks behind them after sending a volley a bullets.

It's Walter, returned from his wanderings, who shouts, "They're just soldiers!" His voice high and bored, like a child who was disappointed by their Christmas present. The woods around them begin to lighten. Kindling once too wet to start a fire burns and surronds them.

Seras hears Girlycard say, "Ah, but there is _one_." The painful pressure of his hand leaves her neck. Dazed as blood rushes to her head, she staggers behind a tree, just in case. But Girlycard, with his long, black hair, and white skin that glows in the fire, smiles, looking out into the fire.

She peaks around the tree. Pip bunkered himself behind a thick stump with the fire rising to his left flank. She couldn't see where Walter got off too. Hans was not inside the ring of fire. Readjusting her grip on the pistol, a square German gun, she raises it—a gloved hand rests on the barrel, stopping any further movement.

"How vile. A women with a weapon. This is what Protestantism does to the world, " the man says. He is tall, thin, and graying. Easily a grandfather, but his posture and presence is as powerful as any able bodied man. No jacket, no hat, no warm clothing what so ever. In a burgundy pin striped suit and an wide brimmed fedora, he snatches Seras' wrist and twists. "Allow me to relieve you of such a burdensome thing."

She struggles to keep her grip on the gun, but as he continues to twist, the further she sinks to the ground until her trousers are wet with ice, snow, and mud.

_Ash_, she thinks as she shakes in effort and pain. In the light of the burning forest, she was sure of it. His skin looks to be filled with ash.

"Seems as if even she can tell you're a fake!"

The man drops Seras' wrist. He smiles like Girlycard, wide and mocking. "Oh, look who it is. I had hoped to meet you before you were killed, Alu—"

Seras fires, but only manages two shots before the kickback from the gun was too much for her aching wrists. Her eyes were open the whole time. He was a half a meter from her. He should be staggering with two bullets in him and screaming. Yet, there he stands, frowning, two meters away. "Like I said, women with weapons is completely barbaric. As if they know how to handle such objects!"

"Holy Father," she says. The fire reaches the branches. Creaking and cracking, some of the limbs begin to crumble and crash down on to the ground where they hiss in the mud. She clambers to her feet, gun dangling, and knees weak. Her mind sways through memories. Information and subtle hints weave together.

"Come now, Seras, its not that hard." Girlycard's hand rests on her shaking hands that clutch her gun. He grins, teeth feral. Eyes gleaming red. Then he is gone. And so is the ash-man.

**Author: **Enjoy and review if so inclined. Thank you!


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

"Don't be afraid of your fears. They're not there to scare you. They're there to let you know when something is worth it."

—C. JoyBell C.

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Twenty Three**

Pip wraps Seras hands. She burned them after a limb fell on his leg and she moved it, skin sizzling like the drying mud. After Girlycard disappeared, so did their adversaries. Alone, the two comrades ran until the fire was a distant glow of embers. They stink and are covered in soot. They sit beside a melted stream with dawn at their backs. The sun, it seems, would make an appearance today despite smoke and steam. Seras laughs at a black smudge that crosses his nose. Pip proceeds to smear her face, too, so that four stark lines of black race up her cheek. Despite exhaustion, (their red eyes, their shaking hands, their shifting bodies) they are feral creatures with their war paint of ash.

"Seras."

She opens her eyes. Pip stares down at her hands. The gauze used was torn off from the sleeves of his shirt. It is still wet from his sweat. "We can't stop here."

Reaching up, she touches his cheek. "Should I ask you the questions, or should I ask him?"

Pip looks away and bites at his nails. He could use with a cigarette. Her hair, once shoulder length, hangs at short, odd intervals. The water beside them doesn't stop moving.

"We'll wait here. That _Boche_ will find us."

"How?"

"That's the wrong question to ask," he teases.

Frowning, she drags the back of her hand under her running nose. Improper. Unlady-like. Barbaric. A perfect way to act for a time like now.

"Why?"

Pip smiles. "You always liked to ask questions to which you already know the answer to, don't you, chéri?"

* * *

><p>Night falls when Hans trots up to them, his clothing is burned and his skin is gritty from the fire, yet he stands attentive, his fingers flexing. Aroused and ready for more bullets and flames. Pip and Seras lean on each other, exhausted and weary. They spoke of things of little importance to make sure they didn't fall asleep during their wait. Seras would dip her hands into the now stream to try to numb the pain of her hands. Pip did the same with his swollen ankle where the branch fell. Neither felt much relief.<p>

"Come, I take us back," Hans says. Something burns in his eyes. They are as bright and blue as the halo around the full moon.

Pip stands and says, "I need to piss."

The stream of snow and ice trickles between the two parties. "Stop, we must—"

"Hans," Seras says. "I'm going to ask you some questions. You don't have to answer them, but if you do, all or nothing. Don't hold back. We can't afford that any more."

Pip is gone at this point. Not far, in reality, but not visible. Seras asked for the illusion, at least. Hans doesn't nod, but she proceeds anyways.

"The people in the graves, they were a result of Millennium's failed experiments."

He doesn't respond because she didn't ask a question, but she needed to say it anyways. After all, justifying the inane action of Girlycard (_monster_) shooting a corpse in the head made too much sense now. That body wasn't a corpse, at least, not yet.

"Could you tell—" she looks away from his eyes. "How close is Millennium from reaching their goal?" The water is a trail of crystal in the dark.

"Near enough to stop killing the results of their experiments," he says in German.

"So you're…naturally how you are?" He nods. Seras' boots are too big for her and there are blisters on her pinkie toes, but she won't take them off. Good shoes are as precious as food. "Why do they need me?"

"They need people _like_ you," he corrects. "But there are too few people like you, thus, a target."

She decides she doesn't want to know what that entailed. (_Are you a virgin, Frau Victoria?_)

"Can a person still be considered the Perfect Human and still be human?"

"No."

She looks up at him, her palms up and open. Pip did a poor job of wrapping them, really. "Walter is human."

He notices how she holds one shoulder higher than the other. Her right shoulder. Her right hand. She hurt her wrist, too, yet hasn't attended to it. Was the recoil of the pistol too much for her or did something else happen?

"Girlycard isn't."

He crouches and cups the water in his hands to drink.

"Are you and Girlycard the same?" She touches her neck where she is bruised. His slender fingers imprinted on her skin. Dark and purple.

"In ways." Pip is three meters away. To his credit he did take a piss. Hans can smell it. "We are not the same, but we are not human," he explains in German. "Would you like to know more?"

"No." She is looking away, her eyes clenched tight. Her heart is fast and adrenaline floods through her once again. He finds the smell oddly attractive.

"Seras, I would like to ask you a question, too."

She looks up at him.

"Do you trust me?"

She smiles. The ash on her face crinkling and falling off like a plaster mask.

* * *

><p><strong>Author<strong>: Thank you for the continued reviews despite the hiatus. As consolation, I have multiple chapters written, and multiple planned. What does that mean for all of us? That's for me to know and for you to find out.

Much Love, Fish


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

"All War is Deception."

—Sun Tzu

**Crossing the Line**

**Chapter Twenty Four**

Enthralled and terrified, Hans combs her hair with his fingers before bringing the knife up. He hesitates, but she _asked_, didn't she? So he begins careful shearing of the worst of her hair. Blond and black, it all falls into his lap. She sits with her legs bent beneath her, looking forward at the supplies they dug out of Hans home, now a sinkhole. He tries not to touch the skin at the back of her neck, the shell of her ear. Instincts and training remind him of the best places to plunge the serrated knife for the quickest kill, the quietest kill. In the hollow of her collar bone and neck. Straight down. You can't make a mistake then and miss. He is most careful about her neck.

They don't speak. She hasn't asked any new questions about him, only about Hellsing. Pip answered those questions. If any of the other members of Millennium where here, the information he was privy to—Hans dropped the last of the hair into his lap. He resolves to be the one to kill Pip before they reached him.

"Are you done?" Seras reaches up to touch the back of her hair. Just by her finger tips. Dirt is lodged beneath her nails, but the wrapping around her burns are clean. Pip told Hans to use Vaseline for her hands. "It will keep them from splitting open," the Frenchman said. Hans would have never known that.

"I suppose it's better this—"

"Verzeih mir." He rests his hand in the valley of her shoulder blades. He feels her heart, its constant beating. The fabric of the stolen uniform bunches between his fingers. She says nothing and he is grateful. He leaves to burn her hair in the fire. He resolves to be the one to kill Seras before they reach her. Before they can spoil her.

Pip stares at him from where he is cleaning the guns: four rifles and two pistols. But little ammo. Theft of bullets leads to execution. Two people were tortured and left to die because of what he pilfered during his months of planning. He couldn't kill them in mercy. That bothers him the most. The fire hisses. Seras' hair curls and disappears into ash.

"I do hope I can be there to watch that show then."

"Girlycard," Seras exclaims. Although she smiles, her gun in loaded in her hand. But the slight boy with his wide mouth split into a smile did not turn his gaze from Hans. "I really do hope to be there," he repeats, but this time in Romanian. "The ultimate expression of love, isn't it?" But Hans understands. It is his mother language, too.

"Do creatures like us even remember what love is?" Hans nudges a stray log that threatens to roll out of the fire.

"I like to think we simply express it in more complicated fashions." Girlycard spoke in English now, his head tilted with half of his face cut off by his hair.

Seras shrugs on a canvas jacket. "Where's Walter?"

"Ah, he was captured. Poor man, I quiet liked working with him. Showed so much promise, indeed."

Pip scoffed, "I am happy to know that you have our backs if we get captured, too."

Girlycard eyebrows raised into his bangs. "Hans seems to have that covered. Don't you worry, my dear French comrade."

"You left him there," Seras says, her hair covered by a cap, but the bruises around her neck have begun to turn yellow and green.

The boy (_vampire_) cocks his hips forward and taps at his chin. "I suppose I did, didn't I? Interesting, didn't think of it that way. I thought he was just stupid to get caught, so I left him to the fate he decided."

"How could you do that?" Seras steps forward. "You work for the same agency; he is our comrade, our ally. And you just left him there to be used by those disgusting monsters. You knew what was going on there. You know what will happen to him. Right now, you probably know exactly the type of pain he is going through."

Hans flexes his fingers. The safety of Seras' gun is off. Even she, a human with supposedly dulled senses, understood the change in Girlycard's demeanor. Alabaster, smooth, chin tilted up, eyes glaring down. Even his hair didn't move in the wind. Complete stillness. A threatening serenity.

_A face without expression brings about more fear as a face with expression. _The previous Captain of Millennium taught Hans that. That man, with half of his cheek missing from a fight to be alpha of his destroyed pack, Hans killed him, too. It was impossible, after all, to have more that one alpha in a pack. Neither of their instincts would have allowed it. The General enjoyed the show their blood provided. The Doctor documented the ritual. Reading the meticulous notes two years after assuming position of Captain led to his first act of defiance: a quick death to a mutilated experiment subject.

"Would you have gone back for him?"

Seras pauses. She continues to favor her right side and keeps it back, an instinct to keep what is injured protected. Her wrist will heal as slowly as her burns. She nods.

Pip sighs, "Oh, _mignonette_."

Hans closes his eyes. _Yes, you would,_ he thinks. He feels the cold grin of Girlycard's (_Alucard, Dracula_) slice onto his face. "Oh, goody."

* * *

><p><strong>Author: <strong>Alucard as Girlycard always struck me as more teasing and sweet in a creepy way. Hope my interpretation is enjoyable!

Also, I don't doubt that Hans would be the type of person to kill those he loves out of mercy. Especially if we consider the types of life he must have lived.

Anyways, Rip, Zorin, et al. next. Thank you for your continued support!


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

"What we observe as material bodies and forces are nothing but shapes and variations in the structure of space."

Erwin Schrodinger

**Crossing the Line**

**Twenty Five**

Their group moves to the side of a large lake. After a night discussion with voices as loud as burning wood, they decide to position themselves on the offense. Seras thinks of blue lips and gray, naked bodies in pits, and that's all the reason she needs. The castle, abandoned in the first Great War, hangs over the lake like a gargoyle. Misshapen and vicious, she never stops starring at its rippling reflection. Hans sits beside her sharpening his knife. Rust speckles the metal near the hilt. She notices a freckle on his wrist.

"Are their any survivors. At the castle, that is?" Seras asks, leaning forward, elbows wedged on her knees. Her hand rests against her neck. The skin is soft and thin, an interesting contrast to the flaking skin of her palm. She feels her pulse. When her hair was longer she didn't feel as exposed.

"Not any more," Girlycard answers. He stands with his hands behind his back beside the pebbly beach. His shiny black shoes sinking down. She wants to ask how its possible that he is awake and it's only late afternoon. _Vampire_, she thinks and wonders what that really means.

Behind them, Pip sleeps and shivers. His ankle, twisted and burned from the fire, is infected: red, pussing, hot. Hans predicts he would survive another week without medication. Girlycard promises it would be less. Any warmth provided from the day seeped away. Charged clouds rush forward, over the castle and towards them along with the darkness of the night. Hans knee presses into Seras' thigh. Again, she reminds herself this is all real. He is real along with everything that he is: hidden mysteries of a world shrouded in myths and fairy tales. The wind galvanizes the lake to stir up waves that crashed against the pebbled beach like at sea.

"Will you help me move Pip farther back?" Seras asks as the water stirs like a waking beast, shaking its monstrous head without care to what's around it.

Hans sheaths his knife and hands it to her, the hilt the same color as the rust still on the blade. "Of course," he says. She takes it and shoves it into her belt, even though she doubts she would use it. They ran out of Vaseline the same day Pip got his fever and her hands ache more than her empty stomach.

Girlycard stands at the shore with waves crashing and lapping at his feet, like subjects bowing before their king.

* * *

><p>Rain comes and so does he. In shades of orange, he steps forward. Seras knows him. The boy who beat the Jew-sympathizer on stage, his smile still lopsided and sweet and hair gold as any ripe wheat field. She does not laugh or balk at the sight of pointed ears. Instead, she reminds herself this is reality, everything before was an illusion, except Hans isn't here to remind her. He left an hour ago to scout when he picked up something suspicious.<p>

Knife drawn Seras crouches in front of Pip, who is propped against a tree, hair half braided and hat crushed beneath his butt to try to stave off the mud and water. Girlycard still has not come in from the shore and she hasn't bothered to check on him.

"I have a message."

Surprise slackens her shoulders. The leather hilt rubs the scabs of her palms. She can't feel the skin, but she still feels the pain.

"You are her, aren't you?" the boy asks, eyes wondering and wide and gold, so gold they glisten like an electric bulb. The fire hisses between them as it struggles against the rain. "I've wanted to meet you for so long," he gushes, moving forward. She squeezes the knife. He steps right into the fire and soon the damp, purple darkness of the storm is all that's around them. The wind echoes _so long, so long, so long._

Seras reassures herself by reaching out for Pip. Her fingers find purchase on his boot, propped up to try to lessen the swelling in the ankle. He reassures himself by holding on to the back of her uniform. A flash of lightning snapped and a faint crash of thunder followed.

His gold eyes blink before her. "My name is Schrodinger," he says, ignoring the point of the knife Seras redirects the rest against his chest. Her grip on the knife is so weak that the tearing of his uniform as he edges closer threaten to rip it away from her.

Decorum forces her to nod in greeting and repeat, "Schrodinger."

He smiles. She knows this without observing it. He is pleased that she said his name. "I have a message for you Seras Victoria. It's from the Major," he says.

Pip wheezes. Water splashes into her eye and she blinks. And she is shoved back into the ground. Mud smears between her fingers as Seras tries to balance herself, her bandages ruined and sopping with water. A heavy mist shrouds everything and creates a strange glow to the forest, much akin to the deceiving light of a full moon. "What?" she whispers. It shimmers and condenses. Another crack of lightning.

"Mon dieu."

The animal growls. Its silver fur shivering as if every hair was alive and at the ready to attack, to defend, to kill. It perches on four feet, with the front ones appearing more hand-like. Its limbs are long, with its chest half the width of Seras' height and twitching muscles obvious beneath its coat. It crouches low, pressing her beneath its mass. _Hans_. Mud bubbles around his paws. She can see splatter marks along his stomach from running. His tail is matted and streaked.

"_Kamerad!_" the boy exclaims, apparently happy to have sharp teeth and black gums stretched out towards him. "Ich bin sehr glucklich! Der Major sagte mir, Sie wurden bald sterben. Ich bin dankbar, kannich sagen, auf Wiedersehen!"

"Sie wurden bald sterben," Seras repeats, mud oozing between her fingers and her burned skin cracking, a temporary salve. During meets in her flat where they would sit across each other trying not to stare and when the language lessons began to surround threats, warnings, and signs of danger she became intimately familiar with _sterben _(to die) and _toten _(to kill). Lightning, thunder, and splashes of the rain. Between the snap of a bullet.

Schrodinger collapses to his knees first before titling to the side and landing on the ground. His pointed ears slack to one side. A bullet hole the size of her thumb nail dribbles out blood. In this light, it looks like mud. His mouth is smiling and even with a human face, his teeth are sharp.

_I shot a child, _she thinks, as the mist and light return and disappear quick. The shivering silver fur is gone, but Hans crouches beside her, his hand on her thigh, a comfort for her as well as for him. A dependence formed during nights with their backs pressed to each other's and conversations in struggling English and German. Her hands smear mud on his white skin as she grapples in the darkness to hug him.

_This is real_, his breath seems to say as it comes out in heated puffs over her shoulder.

* * *

><p>Girlycard singing wakes Seras up at dawn. Hans sleeps beside her, a hand stretched out. His face an orderly construction of lines and angles.<p>

"What is that?" she asks. Girlycard is blue and purple next to her. His suit is pressed and his hair straight.

"Some ignorant German song I picked up."

She groans as she stands. Her back throbs from being thrown back by Hans. "You must like it though, you're singing it."

The boy purses his lips. The sun is stronger now and the shadows of his face are light bruises. "You are right," he admits. "I am partial towards it." She pulls up her collar, not to protect her neck from the cold, but to hide it away. "But I do enjoy stories where the devils win. It doesn't happen too often."

* * *

><p><strong>Author: <strong>So, I was going to write this epic scene where Rip and Girlycard have their battle, but I realized how ill placed it would be in this fanfiction. Instead, we know it happened because of the song Girlycard sings from the opera "Der Freischutz." Oh, he does love to gloat.

Thank you for reading and loving. Up next…a fast paced explosion of fights and revelations. Doctor. Major. And Schnochen. I hope I can continue to please you.


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